None as of yet (I bet that just catches your eye!)
by SkittyKitty
Summary: Four years after the crash, Riddick is now the only survivor. A woman he's hired to kill unknowingly brings up painful memories.
1. Chapters One and Two

Author's Note: Ok, so this is my first time showing any of my fan fiction to the general public.  Only two chapters so far, will be working at more soon.  I wanted to get a few feedbacks before I posted anymore, because if everyone thinks its crap, I'll just write it for myself.  Any feedback is welcome, as is e-mail, but please be gentle!  I can take constructive criticism, but downright insults make me cry!  = (  Also, this hasn't been beta-read yet, so please forgive any spelling or grammatical mistakes.  Anyone out there who is in need of something to beta-read, let me know, because I have a position open for beta-reader/muse.  Position holder will be showered with thanks and loyalty.  = )  

Title: None as of yet (suggestions welcome!)

Author: SkittyKitty

Rating: R for graphic imagery and language, may progress to NC-17

Chapter One: Anything For A Price

            Riddick strode to his office, hole-in-the-wall though it was.  He reeked of sweat and blood and fear, all of which had come from the people he'd killed tonight.  All right, maybe a little of the sweat was his.  He smiled wryly at the thought.  He was never one to wear fancy colognes to attract attention, quite the opposite.  Sweat and dirt was the norm on this planet; if you smelled like anything else, you were automatically labeled an outsider.  He'd have to swing by the showers before he left, but first he wanted to check out the file folder that he knew would be on his desk.  Routine rarely varied around this place.

            Walking into his office, Riddick was assaulted by the foul smell of the place.  He'd been meaning to ask Brant, his partner both in crime and the business they operated, if he'd been stashing some of their latest kills in Riddick's walls.  He didn't bother opening a window; he'd been around the stench of death his whole life, so it really didn't bother him after the first whiff.  He slid into the chair behind his desk and allowed himself a leisurely stretch before turning his attention to the file.  It was thinner than usual, he noted.  Usually the files they received about impending targets were filled with thick sheaves of paper, full of personal and business history, as well as quite a few identifying photos.  But this one…Riddick opened it to find only a couple sheets of loose leaf paper with the crucial information; name, address, height, weight, identifying marks…shit.  Riddick's satisfaction about the evening's previous events slowly melted away as the information sunk in.  A woman.  

            "You saw that, too, huh?" Riddick hadn't realized that the words had passed through his lips until Brant answered him.

            Riddick didn't bother looking up to greet him.  He knew he'd see the same half-smile, half-smirk on the same good-looking face he always saw.  Brant was young to be in the business, only twenty-two, but he was as adept a killer as most men twice his age.  Riddick didn't care to know the details of why he'd gotten involved in the professional killer business or how he'd gained the skills necessary, so he'd never asked, and Brant had never offered an explanation.  But Riddick had worked closely with Brant for two years, and it was hard _not_ to notice the man's obvious military training.  If Brant was AWOL, Riddick certainly wasn't going to have a quirk of conscious about it.  He'd spent enough time dealing with the assholes in the military to know that if he hadn't been kicked out, he would've left without a goodbye note, too.  

            "Where's the picture?  We're gonna have a helluva time confirming a kill if we don't have a-" Riddick was stopped short by the picture Brant dangled in front of him.  

            "They musta been short on resources this time.  Not enough to go around.  So they packed it in my file instead o' yours.  You're not offended, are you?" 

            Riddick only had one ear on the conversation, and that in itself was a feat.  He knew that Brant wouldn't have given a shit if Riddick was offended, so he didn't waste time answering him.  The real problem he had was the picture of the woman.  His heart was beating out its normal rhythm in fast forward.  He moved around the desk and took the picture from Brant, studying the face in it.  The photo was black and white, so he couldn't determine her exact hair color or skin tone, but the features…take away the long hair and regress the mature face a few years, and it could've been Jack.  The eyes that seemed too big in the elfin face were focused somewhere to the left of the photographer.  The haunted look that Jack had sported for a long time after the crash was hidden more carefully in this face, under a mask of determination, but Riddick still spotted it.  

            The sharp ache of his heart at the resemblance would've been replaced with hope of her existence if Riddick hadn't watched Jack bleed to death in his arms three years ago.

            "…Riddick?!?"  Brant was trying to gain his attention, Riddick realized.  "You wanna take that home for a jerk-off session or what?"

            Riddick swallowed the desire to punch the little shithead.  "No.  Just memorizing the face, s'all."

            Brant had suspicion in his eyes, but nodded as though he accepted Riddick's explanation.  

            Riddick grabbed the file from his desk and re-read the information.  

Name: Wendy Marie Hopson.  

Age: 20.  

Height: 5'3.  

Weight: 115 pounds.  

Identifying marks: Three knife wound scars between shoulder blades, matching knife wound scars on wrists, jagged scar on left upper thigh caused by fractured bone breaking through skin, five cigarette-sized burn scars on lower back.

Weapons efficiency: None

Fighting efficiency: None

Combat training: None

Other schooling: Graduated high school, attended two semesters of local college, dropped out for unknown reasons.

Work: Laundry woman five days a week, 6 am – 12 pm (112 N. Broad St.), cleaning woman five days a week, 1 pm – 6 pm (various locations as assigned by employment agency)  

      Target to be terminated by single gunshot wound to back of head.  Other violence is acceptable but not required.  Contractor would prefer murder to look like botched robbery, taking place in her residence (2856 Lilydale Rd. Apt. 4b).  Before target is terminated, location of disk entitled "Chrysanthemum" is to be requested.  If information is not secured, contract price is lowered by 50,000 credits.  Any other civilians in residence with target are to be terminated as well.  100,000 credits will be added to contract price for each additional target terminated.

Contract price: 5,000,000 credits to be deposited with confirmation of kill.

     "See any problems?"  Brant had taken a seat in the chair in front of Riddick's desk.

            "What's the shit about killing anybody else there with her?  We've never gotten a request like that before.  It's always just kill the target, boom, done."  Riddick was surprised at the defensive stance he'd taken.  Brant was usually the one with the questions about contracts.

            Brant shrugged easily.  "Who knows?  Jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe.  Wants her new sugar daddy taken out too.  Who cares, man?  It's a damn good payday."

            "The creed is greed…" Riddick mumbled.  It was a lesson he himself had taught Brant.  Anything could be done for a price.  "Yeah, who knows.  We'll start surveillance on 'er in the morning, job should be done within a couple days."  Riddick slipped the picture into his own file folder and walked out, a sure indication that the conversation was over.  He left the office immediately, bypassing the showers on his way out.

**Chapter Two: A Nightmare Before Bed**

            Riddick made the short trip to his apartment without remembering any of it.  His senses kicked on as he slid the keycard in the lock and did the nightly sweep of his apartment, searching out any other life sources.  When he was satisfied that his abode was empty, he stepped through the door and tore off his goggles, flinging them to one side.  He'd been wearing them so often that a permanent crease was beginning to appear on the back of his almost-bald head.  

            Knowing that the fridge would hold nothing but a six-pack of beer, Riddick stepped past it and eased himself onto the couch.  He held the file folder on his chest, unsure if he wanted to look into that face again.

            "Lights to dim." The pitch-black environment immediately rose to softly lit.  He pulled the photo from its sheath in the folder and gazed at the woman portrayed.  She must have been at one of her jobs, he mused, when the picture was taken.  She wore a handkerchief loosely on her head, holding the hair away from her face but allowing it to fall over her shoulders in waves.  She had a few smudges of dirt (or were those bruises?) on her face, and her hand was in motion, as though she was about to wipe them away.  Riddick realized, with more observation, that he might not have spotted the woman's resemblance to Jack if it hadn't been for the look in her eyes.  Shadowed, hunted, afraid.  But with an overlying sense of determination.  Jack never had gotten over that cocky little attitude of hers…he supposed it didn't help that she hung around with him.  

            Riddick turned the picture over.  Jack…  He'd gotten angry with himself when he first recognized the feelings he'd had after her death.  Grief…sadness…guilt.  The old Richard "Badass" Riddick wouldn't have wasted his time with introspective emotions.  And with Jack gone, there was no reason left to continue his application into the human race.  He'd tried to get himself to believe that it was the stupid kid's own fault, that she didn't even deserve a second thought.  And he'd been fairly successful in deluding himself…until the dreams started.  Always the same.  Always the most terrifying thing he'd ever dealt with in his life.  

            He leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing the fragmented memories of the dream to wash over him.  'Maybe if I get it out of the way before I go to sleep, it'll be sated.' He thought idly to himself.  

            It started as the event itself had started.  He and Jack were sitting across the table from each other, trying to outdo each other by telling the rudest jokes they'd ever heard.  She'd surprised him by giving him a run for his money.  This thirteen-year-old girl with a toothy grin and in a blonde wig they'd picked up for her was spewing out some language he'd only heard in the deepest darkest slams he'd been in.  His booming laughter had woken Imam, and so the competition had ended abruptly in the presence of the holy man.  The conversation had turned to what they were going to do next.  They'd been picked up without raising suspicion, the somewhat flimsy story they'd concocted holding up to the cargo ship's captain's inquiries.  Yes, I'm Richard Fry, this is my son Jack, and this is our traveling companion Imam.  Yes, we're the only survivors of the crash.  Yes, we've already contacted the authorities to let them know where the crash site was and who the deceased are.  No, thank you, we're fine; we'd just like to be let off on your first stop, thank you very much for the ride.  By the captain's quick acceptance of their story, Riddick had to wonder if there wasn't something on board that wasn't entirely legal.  The captain didn't push the issue of contacting the authorities again to inform them of the survivors' whereabouts; instead, he led them to some comfortably furnished rooms and didn't bother them for the rest of the trip.  

The ship's first stop happened to be Hjlen, a planet only a few weeks trip from Earth, and despite Riddick's doubts, Jack had insisted on seeing her home planet again.  So the three of them had gone shopping and then boarded the first ship to earth.  This time they registered as Richard Paris, his granddaughter Jackie, and their spiritual guide, Ali.  Jack had never missed an opportunity to goad Riddick about his "geezer apparel" and carefully applied beard, wig, and wrinkles.  Riddick, in turn, made snide remarks about the blonde wig and flowery dresses that Jack wore.  Imam's tolerance never seemed to waver when the two began bickering like children, but they both noticed that his chanting and praying sessions seemed to last longer than usual and both of their names were mentioned quite frequently in them.  

During this part of the dream, Riddick should have been relaxed, reviewing pleasant memories, but his stomach always knotted during these first few glimpses of happiness.  He knew what was coming.

As the three of them sat talking in the dimly lit kitchen area of the hotel they'd chosen on Earth, an outside threat went unnoticed.  Riddick had analyzed this scene many times, trying to pinpoint what went wrong and when, and he'd come to the conclusion that after almost five months of traveling without a single hassle, he'd let his guard down.  He was in the company of friends and there'd been no sign of mercs or the law.  Consequently, the door to their room being kicked in was the first sign of danger that Riddick intercepted.  

Jack and Imam had both frozen, their eyes wide and uncomprehending.  Riddick had swung himself over the table, his survival instincts kicking into high gear, his thoughts of the other two overridden by the innate, animal need for self-preservation.  He'd grabbed his shiv from his boot as he slid across the floor and thrown it at his first target; the first man in the door.  The blade hit the bullseye, the man's neck.  He'd sputtered and gagged on his own blood before hitting the floor.   By that time Riddick had grabbed the gauge he'd hidden underneath the couch and started shooting, still lying on his back and aiming between his bent knees.  A small part of his mind had been screaming for him to get Jack and Imam out of the line of fire, but he hardly heard it.  The cool, collected killer had taken up residence again.  Four men were on the floor before he spotted Jack tugging Imam from his chair.  Not an ounce of sympathy rose for her as he noted the bloodstain spreading on Imam's white robes.  Jack continued to tug until Imam's body fell onto the floor, and then she just stood in shock for a moment, gazing down at what Riddick supposed she thought of as her surrogate father.  

While dreaming this, Riddick viewed himself in his mind's eye and gagged at the disgust he felt.  He could find no fault with his own defensive actions; they were smooth and perfected by years of practice.  But years of being a cold-hearted killer had also diminished his ability to think in terms of anyone but himself.  And that's what disgusted him.  Jack and Imam were his friends, people he'd grown to care about in his own twisted way.  But when it came down to it, five months of friendship couldn't erase a lifetime of selfish ambition.

The multitude of men coming through the door in special ops mission gear didn't seem to give a fuck about the girl standing off to the side, they were focused on Riddick.  And Riddick was just as focused on them.  When he'd run out of ammunition for the gauge, he'd leapt up, feeling the bite of bullets embed themselves in his body.  He'd grabbed Jack as he ran down the hallway, the only redeemable thing he'd done the whole evening.  The only problem with it was that Riddick knew without a doubt he wouldn't have gone out of his way for her.  She'd been on his path, and it hadn't really put him out to grab her, actually, it might have slowed him down if he'd had to knock her out of his way.  He'd thrown her in a bedroom off the hall, not bothering to whisper instructions or comforting words.  He'd only run faster without her in his arms, grabbed the duffel bag full of weapons in his bedroom and exited out the window in a single, fluid movement.  He was secure in the knowledge that the men would follow him, so he took the fire escape steps three at a time and landed on the ground ready to run.  But after a few steps, he realized that there weren't echoing footsteps behind him.  He ducked behind the corner of the building and grabbed a shotgun, sure this was some ploy to catch him off-guard.  But a quick scan of the ground and building revealed no gunmen.  He realized why a few seconds later.  The wail of police sirens were in the distance, possibly only minutes away.  The intruders hadn't been cops, then.  They had to be mercs.  Riddick couldn't help but smile when he realized that either _a lot_ of independent mercs had teamed up to find him, or he'd become bigger bounty and a private company had sent out their army.  He must really be the Big Bad he'd always suspected if they'd gotten fed up with one or two mercs at a time and sent the whole lot of them.  He suppressed a chuckle and felt his adrenaline begin to subside.  The animal was purring contentedly as it stalked back to its cave.  

And that's when Jack's image flooded his mind so powerfully that he almost fell to his knees.  He'd choked out a quiet, "Oh, god," before he took off up the fire escape again, self-preservation left behind.  He didn't care if the cops had arrived already or if there were still mercs in the room…he had to find Jack.

The room was empty of armed men as he climbed back in the shattered window, and he could only detect one faint human heartbeat.  He'd prayed as he ran down the hallway, something he hadn't ever done before.  'Oh, God, I know I said I hated you, and I probably still do, but if you let her live I'll try.  I promise I'll try.  I'll try to…I don't know…but I'll try to do it, whatever it is.'  

But apparently God hated Riddick just as much as Riddick had professed to hate Him, because when he reached the room he'd tossed Jack into, the scent of fresh blood was trailing out of it to mix with the other blood scents in the kitchen.  

"R-R…ick…" The tiny voice was hard to make out between the gurgling sounds also coming out of her mouth.  

"Oh, god, Jack…" Riddick bent to where she was sprawled on the ground, her hand not even big enough to cover the hole that was left in her stomach.  He scooped her up and used his much larger hand to apply pressure to the wound.  Even as he did it, he knew it was pointless.  He'd left enough wounds of this size in people to know that it was an effective way to kill someone.  

Jack slowly moved her arm up, as if she was underwater, to wipe off some of the blood coming from her mouth.  She gazed up at him without recrimination, and he felt his heart stop when the corners of her mouth tugged up in an attempt at a smile.

"I…I h-held 'em…held 'em off for y-you, Riddick."  And then she'd tucked her head a little further into the crook of his arm, closed her eyes, and died.

As if the knowledge that she'd sacrificed herself for his worthless carcass wasn't enough, the dream continued, although these images weren't something from memory…they were the fragments of guilt that had been formless in his mind, but that his subconscious had given faces and voices and set loose in his dreams.

First Carolyn.  "Gee, Riddick, guess you really _didn't_ know how to rejoin the human race."  He was back on the crashed ship, chained to the wreckage, and she was sitting on a crate in front of him, her relaxed position grotesque because of the huge amounts of flesh that were missing from her body.  Claw marks had disintegrated half of her face, but she smiled at him anyway.  "I never said I'd die for you.  I never said I'd die for you.  I NEVER SAID I'D DIE FOR _YOU_!"  The smile dissipated as her voice gained volume with each repetition.  He trembled in his restraints as she came closer and closer, her words echoing around him, the disgust tangible in the air.  And as she morphed into one of the creatures that had killed her, and he was pleased with the fact that she was going to shred him, the claw that scratched his face turned into a soft, small hand that caressed his cheek.

"What're we gonna tell them about you?" Jack's ghost intoned, mimicking the question she'd asked as they left the planet where so many had died.  When her hand left his cheek, he felt the stickiness of her blood drying on his face.  Her stomach wasn't where it was supposed to be; instead, a mirror replaced the skin that had been torn away.  Jack twirled, laughing gaily.  "Isn't it beautiful, Riddick?"  She stopped dancing and stood a few feet away from him.  His eyes were drawn to the mirror, although he knew what he'd see.  A re-enactment of the hotel scene, although with a few changes.  In this scene, there were no mercs.  Riddick's mirror image simply pushed his chair out from the table, pulled a gauge from behind him, and shot Jack in the stomach.  

"No…no!  That's not what happened!"  Riddick couldn't help the denial spilling from his mouth.

Jack moved closer to him again, staring at him for a moment before climbing up into his lap and resting in the crook of his arm, just as she had died.  But this time Riddick couldn't embrace her, couldn't offer any of the comfort he'd tried to when it had really happened.  He could only cherish her touch, as ghostly and unreal as it was.  

"But it might as well have, right, Riddick?  By leaving me behind, you killed me just as surely as you would have if you'd shot me.  And to think that I wanted to save you.  You."  Here the edge of disgust that had eventually come into Carolyn's voice entered Jack's.  "You, who wanted to leave us all behind to rot in that cave.  Guess old habits die hard, huh?  Trouble comes, look out for number one."  Jack stroked the underside of Riddick's chin, still tucked neatly in his lap.  "_No one's gonna blame you…Riddick…strong survival instinct…how admirable._"  Logically, Riddick knew that Jack hadn't possessed knowledge of his and Carolyn's argument outside the skiff that night.  But in the land of the dead, apparently, all guilty memories were open for bid.  "_No one's gonna blame you, Riddick…except us!"  _Jack leapt off his lap and punched herself in the stomach, shattering her mirror.  She pulled one of the largest pieces out from where it had stuck in her gut, and advanced on Riddick.  "Maybe I should carve you a new stomach, too, Riddick."

And just as he felt the shard enter his abdomen, a new set of hands replaced Jack's.  Dark hands, weathered hands.  Hands that were not pushing the shard in, but removing it carefully and then set about bandaging the wound.

"This solves nothing, Mr. Riddick.  You are too obsessed with your own guilt.  You will never have peace until you resolve it.  And neither will we."  Imam's dark eyes met Riddick's shined ones, a brief respite in the insanity, or possibly only more of it, only in calmer terms.  "We wait at the gateway, Mr. Riddick.  Your guilt has hindered us from passing through.  And each day we become more like the hateful, vengeful creatures you imagine us to be.  Soon we will not be able to pass through the gate, and will be sent to a much darker fate, because of what you have made us."  And on that cue, Imam rose and his robes billowed out, allowing Riddick to see the horrors beneath.  Imam's three young pilgrims reached out of his body, their corpses mutilated and bloody.  They reached for Riddick, some of their fingers only bone, some of their fingers replaced by the shivs that Riddick himself had painstakingly carved out of bone.  And Imam stepped forward, carrying the burden of his followers' bodies, so that they could slice and tear at Riddick.  

And so the dream ended, far too long after the point at which Riddick could have just forgotten about it, but too short to give him the death he so believed he deserved.


	2. Chapter Three: Washed Up

Author's Note: Ahhh, chapter 3!  Yay for me!  Thanks for the feedback I've received so far; if it weren't for that, I probably would've waited a few more weeks to push myself into writing.  I'd love to hear more of what you guys think should or will happen in the story; doesn't mean it will happen, but it gives me good ideas to work off of.  I forgot to mention in the first note that I do not own any of the characters from Pitch Black ('cuz if I owned Riddick, I think we all know I wouldn't be wasting my time at the computer. *g*) Brant and Wendy are original characters, so yes, I do own them, but if you think they're interesting enough to have a place in your fanfic world, please feel free to use them!  (Just drop me a line so I can see how they're faring. J )  Again, no beta-reader for this piece, still hoping someone'll volunteer for the job.  There's a couple parts in this chapter that just don't sound right, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to make them sound better.  I'm sure a lot of you wonderful readers and writers out there could give me a couple of hints!  Also, although I live for positive feedback, I wouldn't mind a helpful suggestion here or there, either.  Thanks, and enjoy!

**Chapter Three: Washed Up**

****

Riddick woke the following morning with the woman's picture still clutched tightly to his chest.  It was noticeably worse for the wear, something he knew Brant would come to his own conclusions about.  

A knock on his door shook the last vestiges of sleep from him.

"Riddick?  You alive in there?"  Brant's voice was followed by another set of rapping on the door.

"Yeah, hold on."  While he put the photo and the papers that had slipped out back into the file, he twisted his neck, savoring the quick succession of popping sounds that resulted.  

Brant's expression was a mix of surprise and mocking when Riddick opened the door.

"Never thought I'd see the day that Richard Riddick overslept." 

"Yeah, well, everyone's allowed a mistake or two."  Riddick grabbed his duffel bag and goggles on the way out the door.

"Not in this business."  Brant's tone was serious.  Riddick only gazed at his partner for a moment, trying to determine whether the comment was a warning or a threat.

When he replied, his tone was serious as well.  "I'll keep that in mind."  There was a heavy silence before a beeping from Brant's bag brought the two back to the issue at hand.

"Her shift starts in about twenty minutes.  She'll probably be leaving for work in ten.  Thought we could trail her."  Riddick nodded his approval and the two set out into the harsh light of the planet's two suns.  They walked in silence for only a short way before Brant spoke.

"How many women we killed, Riddick?"  His voice was muted, something Riddick had insisted upon in public.  He hadn't had any trouble with mercs or cops since Jack had died, but he certainly didn't want the general populace knowing that they had a convicted murderer in their midst.

Riddick bit out the answer without having to think about it.  "Three."

"Ever have any qualms about doing them?"  Brant kept his eyes on the street ahead of them.

Again, Riddick had no hesitation.  "No."  He was acutely aware of where this line of questioning was going.

"So what's with this one?"  Brant stopped under a shop overhang, folding his arms and waiting for Riddick's reply.

"What're you talking about?"  Riddick had learned early on that if you didn't want to lie outright about something, you better be damn good at either playing dumb or avoiding the question.  He guessed he might have to do a little of both here.

"Don't start with the playing dumb shit, Riddick."  He was satisfied despite the unnerving nature of the conversation.  He'd taught the kid well.  "I saw the way you looked at the picture last night.  And oversleeping today?  I know the two are related, I just can't figure out how.  And if we're partners, I have to know about any possible weaknesses on your part that could compromise our position."

Yet another of Brant's military-instilled talents.  The ability to gloss over.  He'd basically said, "Tell me what the fuck your problem is so you don't get us both killed."

"Drop it, Brant.  I'm not gonna fuck up the job, ok?  Just leave it at that."

Riddick began walking again, and Brant had no choice but to follow.  Brant wasn't given an opportunity to speak again.  They reached the woman's apartment building with time to spare, and carefully arranged themselves outside so they wouldn't look like they were waiting for her in particular.

She didn't disappoint them.  Right on schedule, ten minutes before the start of her shift at the laundry shop, Wendy Hopson appeared and scurried right by the two large men standing next to the fruit vendor.  At his first glimpse of her in the flesh, Riddick was more inclined than ever to believe that Jack had somehow survived.  He killed the instinct to call out to her before he could embarrass himself and ruin the surveillance operation, but began following her a little earlier than expected.  Brant was a few paces behind.

            Her handkerchief-coiffed head was difficult to keep in sight among the multitude of handkerchief-coiffed heads, but Riddick had caught her scent as she passed.  Lilacs.  An unusual scent to have.  She may be good at blending into the crowd visually, Riddick thought, but she sticks out like a sore thumb with that smell.  

            They tailed her to the laundry shop and watched her duck inside the employee's entrance.  Riddick leaned against an adjacent building, waiting for Brant to catch up.    

            "Man, you didn't waste any time, did you?"  Brant leaned against the brick wall next to Riddick, although he did it out of necessity, while Riddick was just relaxing.  Brant waited to catch his breath before continuing.  Riddick shook his head.  He'd told the kid smoking wouldn't help his agility any.  "So, we gonna go in and have our first face-to-face or you wanna stay out here and hold up this building?"

            Riddick nudged the duffel bag he'd dropped to the ground with his toe.  "Ain't got any laundry, kiddo.  You want we should ask her to wash our cameras and hold the starch on the guns?"

            Brant wiggled his eyebrows, indicating he thought he had one up on Riddick.  He slung his bag from his shoulder and opened it.  Riddick recoiled from the smell.

            "Jesus, Brant, you been saving up for this occasion or what?"

            Brant chuckled and pulled out a few small pieces of equipment, tucking them into his pockets, then wedged his gun into the waistband of his pants.  He re-zipped the bag and cocked his head, waiting for Riddick's opinion.

            He wasn't keen on forcing friendly conversation with the girl, but he didn't want to break routine, either.  This was the way they'd always done it.  Trail the target for a couple days, meet up with 'em _coincidentally_ once or twice, get the feel for them.  Riddick wasn't as into knowing his targets as Brant was, but he hated a cold kill.  If you don't know your target's weaknesses, then you don't know their strengths, either.  Or at least not as well as you think you do.  Brant had taken that lesson to heart.  Or maybe he was just a sadistic bastard, Riddick wasn't sure which.  Brant enjoyed getting as close as possible to them, ingraining himself as a friend or lover, learning about their life and then revealing that he was the one that was going to end it.  Riddick stayed in the business for one reason: other people's fear. Their expressions when they realized they were going to die by his hand, their choked pleas, the scent they gave off.  The whole package was the ultimate adrenaline rush for him.  But he'd seen Brant kill enough people to know that the younger man got off on hurt.  Pain…emotional or physical.  Just as guns were Brant's weapon of choice for killing, betrayal seemed to be his weapon for inflicting emotional pain.  Not that Riddick cared.  Most of the people they killed deserved more pain than just a quick gunshot to the head or shiv to the gut.  But this girl…Riddick would have to pick up the pace to ensure that Brant didn't have time to charm her, to make her care about him, to slip between her sheets before they killed her.  

            "Yeah, go on."  Riddick's voice came out as a resigned sigh.  Brant nodded, still smiling about obviously being better prepared than his mentor.  As they walked into the artificial coolness of the building, Riddick kicked himself.  Here he'd just been devising how to keep Brant from working his magic on Wendy, and he'd missed the opportunity to inform Brant of the change of plan.  Brant swaggered up the counter, knowing Riddick would stay in the background; Brant was always the mouth-man.  People responded to him much better than they did Riddick.  But in this case, Riddick would have preferred to do the talking, the information gathering.  He'd rather have the girl be uncomfortable with him than more than comfortable with Brant.  Too late now.

            "Can I help you?"  Wendy was at the counter, and asked her routine question without even looking up from her paperwork.

            Even though Brant's back was to him, Riddick could tell by the shift of his body that he was plastering his patented "fuck-me" smile on his face.

            "In more ways than one, I imagine," Brant murmured.  Wendy jerked her head up, eyes narrowed.  Her eyes didn't linger long on her customer, though.  Her eyes shot past his face and focused on the very tall, very muscular, very _bad_ looking man standing near the door.  Her angry expression softened slightly, and her eyes widened for a split second before she turned her attention back to Brant.

            Riddick had seen her reaction to him on hundreds of other faces.  The surprise hadn't necessarily been recognition of any sort.  Considering that he was wearing the black variation of the only clothes in his wardrobe, cargo pants and tank tops, standing with his arms folded in what he supposed was an intimidating stance, and staring at her from underneath black goggles, he was actually impressed that her reaction wasn't one of fear.

            "Excuse me?"  Wendy straightened, all five feet and three inches of her drawn up in offended anger.

            "I said I have some laundry that needs to be taken care of.  I do hope I have the right place?"  Brant's voice still held a caressing undertone, certainly not all business.

            Wendy raised her eyebrows, allowing only a trace of disdain to seep outwards.  She pointedly glanced at the bundles of laundry stacked wall-to-wall, then returned her gaze to Brant.

            "No, this is the bakery.  Laundry's two doors down.  Can I interest you in a walnut cookie?  I crack the nuts myself."  Her voice started off as monotone, a mockery of bored customer-service employees everywhere, but was little more than a growl in the end.  

            Riddick had to hide a chuckle by way of clearing his throat, but lost his humor when he saw Brant stiffen.  To his knowledge, Brant had never been rebuffed quite so harshly.  He'd been turned down, of course, but always with a friendly smile.  Women hated to hurt this baby-faced boy who didn't look like he'd hurt a fly.  Of course, Brant had never come on quite so strong before.  

            "Miss Hopson!"  A short, rotund, balding man came waddling out of the back room.  His cheeks were in high color, although one couldn't be sure if that was from anger or the steam that followed him out.  

            Wendy started at the man's voice, and all disdain fled her face.  She turned to him in an almost, Riddick thought, cringe.  How interesting.

            "Mr. Harding, I-"

            "Miss Hopson, I must say, I am very disappointed in your performance!  How dare you treat a customer with such disrespect!  The attitude and language you have displayed are most unbecoming to lady."  Wendy visibly deflated with each word from his mouth.  "I'll deal with you later."  Wendy took this as a dismissal, and retreated to the back room without a backward glance.  Mr. Harding turned his attention to Brant and began his own brand of charm.  

            "I apologize for the young lady's behavior, Mr…?"

            "Vish.  Mr. Thomas Vish."  Riddick rolled his eyes at Brant's pseudonym.  It had originally been Riddick's, a not-so-clever rearrangement of the letters in shiv.  But Riddick had abandoned it after one use, feeling the urge to laugh at the sheer cheesiness of it every time he uttered it aloud.  

            "Well, Mr. Vish, please be assured that the matter will be dealt with.  And to make up for the unpleasantness, please allow us to wash your clothing free of charge."  The fat little man must really be desperate for business, Riddick thought.

            "Well, it would help, Mr. Harding, but I can't say I'm entirely appeased.  Do you usually tolerate such rude behavior from your employees?"

            "No, no, of course not.  We've had…incidents…with this girl before, but certainly nothing this extreme.  Like I said, Mr. Vish, be assured that it _will_ be dealt with."  

            Brant nodded curtly and threw his bag on the counter.  "I'll return for this tomorrow."  Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door, not sparing a glance toward Riddick.  

            Riddick went unnoticed by the owner of the establishment who was turning toward the back room with a fierce determination in his eyes.  Riddick hesitated, wondering exactly how Mr. Harding intended to 'deal' with Wendy, but the notion of seeing Brant taken down a peg by a woman enticed him outside.

            "Well, that went well."  Brant was already walking down the street, heading toward the office.

            "Shut the fuck up, Riddick."  Brant's voice was an octave lower than normal.

            This time Riddick didn't bother to disguise his laugh.  "'In more ways than one'?"  He let out a belly laugh this time.  "That has to be one of the more disappointing pickup lines I've ever heard, Brant."

            "Shut the fuck up, Riddick."

            "You know, we really shoulda stuck around.  She'll probably be heading home in a few minutes.  I think you got her fired."  Riddick wasn't laughing anymore, but Brant could still hear the smile in his voice.

            "Good."

            "Aw, c'mon, Brant, s'not like you've never been unsuccessful before.  Maybe you've just lost your touch."

            Brant's reply was a low growl, and he continued to cut through the crowd on the sidewalk with long, angry strides.

            Riddick realized that Brant really didn't need his goading at the moment, but the swift cut-down that the ever-popular boy had received from a lowly laundry girl still had him chuckling.  "I'd tell you to calm down, but you're kinda cute when you're angry."

            "Shut the fuck up, Riddick."


	3. Chapter Four: Animal vs. Angel

**Chapter Four: Animal vs. Angel**

****

            When they'd reached the office, Brant stripped and showered without a word, then took off again, leaving Riddick slightly envious.  He was aware that Brant had gone to work off some of his aggression, but not at the gym or on the first stupid drunk to pick a fight.  He'd gone to the Sunspot, a bar a few blocks away.  Most of the drinking customers didn't start filtering in until five, but Brant hadn't gone there to drink.  He'd gone there to get laid by one (or two) of the more than willing waitresses.  Just because they were willing didn't mean he didn't have to pay, but they obviously had a soft spot for the boy who started out rough but ended gently and tipped well.  Riddick would've probably been ten times gentler than Brant, and tipped just as well, but there weren't a lot of girls who'd go to bed with him, no matter how much he paid.  His looks alone were enough to deter them from offering him a drink, and the few bar fights he'd engaged in didn't leave much to the imagination about what he could do if provoked.  The girls didn't want to be in a room alone with him.  So Riddick was left with the few women who were desperate enough for money to do anything, and those were the few he didn't want.  

            As he stepped into the showers himself, he debated about going back to see the woman or staying in the silent, humid office until Brant came back.  If he stayed, the afternoon would be filled with mocking conversation from Brant and the smell of sex permeating the office.  The thought alone of the smell drove Riddick to hurry with his shower, dress, and exit the office.  The smell of a woman…her sweetness, her spice…it was something Riddick hadn't experienced personally in quite a while.  And Brant knew it.  Every time he came back from the bar, he made every excuse to pass by Riddick's desk or stand a little closer than usual when they spoke.  He must've noticed the small muscle working furiously in Riddick's jaw, because it was the only disturbance in the stoic face, and he played on it.   

            _Jesus, I need a good fuck._  Letting his mind linger on the scent of a woman was dangerous.  His nerves misinterpreted the signal and his nostrils flared, the ghost scent flooding his senses for a millisecond.  Every woman he passed on the street looked good enough to eat, and he found himself unconsciously licking his lips.  He was getting more weird looks than usual, and he realized he was staring at a few of them like a ravenous carnivore.  A disturbing image flashed through his mind.  _Hide in the alley…grab one of 'em…fuck 'er six ways from Sunday… Christ!  Get a hold of yourself, Riddick!  _He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts.  _I may be a killer, but I'm not a fucking rapist.  _He'd never taken an unwilling woman, and he certainly wasn't about to start.  

            A passer-by struck his shoulder as they rushed by, forcing Riddick to notice where he'd walked himself.  _Shit… _The same apartment building he and Brant had visited only hours earlier.  He entertained thoughts of doing some solo surveillance on Wendy, but eventually faced up to his weaknesses.  He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't hurt her, not in the frame of mind he was in.  He forced his feet to walk away, forced himself to watch the street signs until he came to the place he was looking for.  

            "Hey big boy…" Riddick grimaced, suddenly not so sure he was where he wanted to be.  The scantily clad woman was coming his way.  Too late to back out now.   

            "Charlene…" Riddick growled out the name, knowing it didn't sound at all like a greeting, but also knowing she wouldn't care.  

            When she wrapped her arms around him, he forced his eyes to roam over her body, not focusing on her face.  The layers of carefully applied make-up did nothing for her aged face, and no amount of money could return life to dead eyes.

            She pulled him into the smoky bar, signaled to the bartender that she'd be busy, and led Riddick upstairs.  As soon as they'd entered an empty room, she shimmied out of her clothes, turned to Riddick, and guided his hand to her breast.  He closed his eyes, concentrating on the soft flesh in his hand, mentally pulling out the map he'd made of her body.  He knew her pleasure spots, and let his hands roam.  No one could ever accuse him of being a selfish lover.  After a few minutes of letting his hands reacquaint themselves with her body, Charlene knelt in front of him and unzipped his pants, letting them fall around his ankles.  Riddick leaned back against the wall and let her do what she was best at, his arms folded across his chest.  Unexpectedly, a familiar face popped into his mind.  Deep blue eyes set in a pale, wan face, soft pink lips pulled tight in anger above a slightly pointed chin, a handkerchief set atop silky hair which was admittedly a rather mousy-brown color.  At the image, Riddick jerked, and Charlene paused, gazing up at him in confusion.

            "Did I hurt you?"  

            Riddick's answer was non-verbal; instead, he lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed, dropping her unceremoniously onto the well-worn mattress before peeling off the rest of his clothes.  Banishing Wendy from his thoughts, he lost himself in well-rehearsed passion.

            ************************************************************************************************

            He didn't head back to the office immediately.  He wandered through the streets, the high noon suns glinting off his goggles.  The most urgent of his needs had been satisfied, although it had ultimately brought up more problems.  What was his deal?  Why would his twisted mind focus on a girl who was as good as dead?  He tried to push the topic out of his mind, but it was persistent as hell.  _Fine, _he thought, _the only reason I thought about her was because she looks so much like Jack…no wait!  That sounded perverted…I've never thought of Jack like _that_…Wendy's just on my mind because we saw her today and she's a target…that's all…  _Riddick wasn't making any progress.  _Who exactly are you defending yourself to, Riddick?  Thought you'd gotten rid of that waste of space conscience after Jack died…_  

            "Shut up…" Riddick growled to himself, earning yet a few more odd looks from fellow pedestrians.  The problem was, he didn't want to argue with the animal; he knew it was right.  He'd thrown himself into killing after Jack's death, working hard to re-cage the emotions she and Carolyn had unleashed; working hard to rebuild the steel around his heart that their trust had melted.  He'd killed as many people in two years as he had in his entire lifetime before the crash, symbolically killing his conscience along with them.  Every time a moral dilemma arose, he had to reason with himself.  _I didn't rape her because rape's no fun, not because it's _wrong_.  I didn't torture him because it takes too long and it's messy, not because it's _wrong_.  _And every time he played the reasoning game, the beast within laughed in his face.  He had to face it: the shoulder angel had imbedded itself deep within his psyche, and it was going to take more than professional, detached killing to dig it out.

            This soul-searching was getting to be a pain in the ass.  He was sick of feeling guilty, sick of rehashing the past, sick of restraining the beast.  And he had the perfect solution.  He'd kill the girl tonight.  Not just kill her…he'd destroy her.  Put to use every method of pain and degradation that he'd ever learned.  A twisted smile parted his lips.  And if his fucking conscience was still there when he was done…well then, he'd fucking ghost himself.

            ************************************************************************************************

            Sunset was approaching.  Brant was in the main office, disappointed that Riddick smelled just as strongly of sex as he did.  No buttons to push.  Riddick sat behind his desk, boots propped up, fingers laced behind his head.  Images of what he planned on doing to the girl were flooding his mind, and he didn't bother to push them away.  He'd gone over his plan at least fifty times since he'd returned to the office, nailing down every detail.  He had a contingency plan for everything.  She had a boyfriend living with her?  So what.  Kill the guy, then play with the girl.  She made too much noise, and a neighbor comes knocking?  So what.  Kill the neighbor, then play with the girl.  Cops get called before he has a chance to shut her up?  So what?  Take the girl, do her somewhere else, then return the body to its residence.  The contract said "preferred" to look like a robbery in her home.  Not absolutely necessary.  And the information about the disk?  Hey, if she wanted to offer it up, fine by him, but if not…the pleasure he was going to get out of killing her was a lot more important than 50,000 creds.  

            "You goin' out tonight?"  Brant had his bag slung over his shoulder, ready to leave.  

            "Maybe.  Got some work I need to finish up first.  I'll see you tomorrow."  Riddick knew that Brant had been on the verge of inviting him out, but he had more important things to attend to.

            "All right.  Later."  Brant was gonna be pissed when he found out Riddick had taken her out.  They'd always partnered up for jobs; always split the money down the middle.  Hell, Brant can have the money, Riddick thought.  But he needed to do this alone.

            Twenty minutes later, Riddick was perched on the fire escape outside Wendy's apartment.  He had a good view of her bedroom, although the door was closed so he couldn't see any other rooms.  He'd ascertained that there was someone in there, but by the pitch of the voice, he knew it wasn't Wendy.  He decided to stay outside, unsure of how alert the other person would be to his presence.  He had to wait for another hour before he finally heard her arrive.  He contemplated entering immediately and killing whoever else was in there, but a few seconds later, he heard the main door close again and the voice was gone.  

            Wendy entered the bedroom almost immediately.  Riddick watched her through the lace curtains, positive that the glare from her lamp would prevent her from seeing anything but her own reflection in the window.  She stripped, giving Riddick a glimpse of the body he hoped would keep him entertained for hours later on in the evening, but then quickly pulled on a tank top and shorts.  She pulled her hair away from her face and restrained it with a band, then crawled into bed, her body language indicating that she was more than exhausted.  When she reached over and turned off the lamp, Riddick pulled away from the window.  He waited thirty minutes before cautiously peering in again, hoping she'd be asleep.  

            When he caught sight of her, adrenaline pulsed through his veins.  Her face was relaxed in sleep, no traces of fear or anger present.  She looked younger than her twenty years, and he briefly thought that if she could look like that all the time, she might be pretty.  _Innocent._  The word branded itself on his brain, and his hand paused at the window.  _She's innocent.  Whoever took out the contract on her is the bastard that deserves to die.  Just fucking look at her, Riddick!  She doesn't deserve to die at all, and she certainly doesn't deserve what you've got planned for her.  You've killed a lot of people, but you've never killed an innocent.  You gonna start now?  You gonna prove what a big bad guy you are by killing an innocent girl?_

Riddick growled low in his throat.  Even his conscience had fucking self-preservation instincts.  He tried to block it out, tried to regain the adrenaline that had been flowing so freely just moments before.  His hand at the window regained motion, and he began to open it slowly.  He'd only gotten it a third of the way open when her bedroom door opened, and he jumped back in surprise.  He hovered by the side of the window, cursing himself for not catching a glimpse of the intruder before he'd reacted.  The window was partially open though, and sound carried beautifully.  

            "Mommy?"

            Even though alarms were going off in his head, telling him to stay back to avoid being seen, he positioned himself in front of the window again.

            "What is it, baby?"  Wendy had rolled over to help the child into bed.  The child that was obviously hers.  Even if no words relating the two had been spoken, appearances spoke for themselves.  The kid had Wendy's face.  Her eyes, her cheekbones, her lips…everything.  As Riddick stared, Wendy tucked the child in next to her, wrapped her arm around the small bundle, and fell back to sleep.

Author's Note: (can't seem to write a chapter without one.)  Now I'm really starting to feel the absence of a beta.  I feel like this chapter is rushed, and like it doesn't really have much original thought behind it, but that could be because it's four o'clock in the morning.  After I post it, I'll probably re-read it and want to re-write it, so that might happen.  I also realize that I ended it horribly.  Sorry about that.  = (  Just to let you know, I appreciate all the reviews I've gotten so far, they're definitely my food for thought.  If you have comments about this chapter or the story in general, feel free to send them to jorcutt@hotmail.com  I would love specific ideas on what to change or what I could improve on.  Hmmm…anyway, I don't like this chapter as much as the first three, but maybe you will.  Let me know!  


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